


The Picture of Zayn and Niall

by mightierthanthecanon



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Professors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightierthanthecanon/pseuds/mightierthanthecanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the prompt: English Lit professor Zayn is a bit confused as to why he's so fascinated with one of his students, Niall Horan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Picture of Zayn and Niall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [words_unravel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/words_unravel/gifts).



A professor in love with a student. Zayn shook his head at himself. It was like every bad romance novel he’d ever read. His situation was so commonplace as to be almost cliché, he knew, but even so... it didn’t feel that way to Zayn. Watching Niall from across the crowded classroom, seeing the small secret smile that was just for Zayn, that meant Niall knew he was watching, Zayn felt…singular. Unique.

What was happening to him had never happened to anyone before, nor would it again. At least, that’s how he felt.

What Zayn knew, however, was something else entirely. As one of the younger professors on campus, the first thing he learned was that student crushes were part of the package deal. Young adults came to Bradford Academy during this, the most important time of their lives, looking for advice, guidance, and instruction. They grew up in class. They came of age in the dormitories. Interest…or obsession, as some of the less understanding professors termed it, in voices dripping with disdain, was only to be expected. It was even more prevalent at Bradford, where creativity and “thinking outside the box” was encouraged as much as, if not more than, good grades and traditional success.

Zayn knew that. He _knew_ it. Temptation came with the territory. Other teachers saw it as a signing bonus, taking their pick of the new students at the beginning of each year without fail. Zayn never did. For the past two years he had been a model of propriety with his students. Even with the boy who modeled for Versace on the side and sent Zayn photos of himself (in varying degrees of undress) to “get his professional opinion.” Even with the twin blonde bombshells from LA with the colorful curses and the painted red mouths to match.

Why was it, then, that Niall Horan had caught his interest this year? More to the point, why had he kept it?

It was six months later and Zayn still hadn’t figured it out. However, it was his nature to fathom the unfathomable. He had devoted more time than he would ever care to admit to thinking about the Irish singer/songwriter with the purple hair.

So, here he was, unable to stop thinking about his own damn student in his own damn class. Wasn’t it supposed to be students with the obsessions?

Zayn sighed, turning his attention back to the class long enough to hear a squeal of excitement. For the third time, he steered the conversation away from Ben Barnes’ hair in the most recent Dorian Gray movie, and back to the text.

Soon, though, he found himself absorbed in his study of Niall, who was now equally and unabashedly absorbed in his own study of Zayn.

With the confident capriciousness that only a 21 year-old could truly possess, Niall’s demeanor varied (along with his hair color) over the course of the year. In truth, it shifted daily. From the loud and contagious laughter that had Zayn’s smothering smiles in his sleeves last semester, to the cocky attempts at flirtation that inevitably followed Niall's winning soccer games, to the way the younger boy's words dried up in his throat when he caught Zayn looking at him, seeing Niall was the highlight of Zayn’s week.

Today had seen more of his favorite student’s bashfulness than usual, and Zayn was enjoying it immensely. For some reason, despite the chill in the March air, Niall had decided to come to class in a tank top that, in Zayn’s opinion, would be better classified as underwear. It was so loose that is left almost his entire chest bare. Worse, it was sheer. In the sunlight, the creaminess of his skin showed clearly through the fabric, as did the pinkness of his nipples.

Had he meant it to be a tease? Zayn could never tell.

A pen clattered to the ground, and startled Zayn from his reverie. He swallowed hard, realizing he was staring.

Zayn knew the telltale signs of Niall’s blush better than the sonnet he had each of his classes memorize (“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he had absolutely not in any way recited to Niall almost a month ago, “thou art lovelier and more temperate…”). It was, in fact, his favorite sight. He couldn’t really be blamed for...causing one, could he?

Zayn noticed Niall’s pen scribbling something into his notebook. Writing. Instead of raising his hand. Zayn’s eyes narrowed. They had spoken about this.

“Planning on sharing your insight with the class, Horan?” he asked pointedly.

Niall could be friendly, passionate, even gregarious outside of the classroom, but had a tendency to grow reticent when called upon to speak. Either he was too affected by Zayn’s presence to hold himself together, or he was too nervous to speak up in class. Despite his ego, Zayn was perceptive enough to recognize that it was most likely the latter that was affecting Niall’s participation.

He’d spoken with him before about asserting himself in class, months ago, when he could still convince himself that his interest in Niall was merely professional. It hadn’t had much of an effect. Niall still seemed content to sit through the hour without once raising his hand. Instead, he laughed and joked with the class, who loved him.

It wasn't just his classroom, either. Zayn was quite sure he was the only one of Niall's professors who noticed how deftly Niall handed off questions and avoided voicing his opinions, only to reveal his insights on the occasional (aced) test or brilliantly written (if not grammatically accurate) essay.

Niall coughed, stalling for time. He ran hand through the purple hair at the nape of his neck as he looked up from his page.

With that, an understanding silence settled across the class. They had all been in his shoes before. It wasn’t the first time Zayn had put someone on the spot, nor would it be the last, but Niall seemed surprised. Clearly Niall had thought that he was exempt from it. Niall raised his eyebrows slightly, silently asking for a reprieve.

Zayn shook his head.

_Not today._

It was Niall’s own fault, he thought. All those smirks he kept flashing in Zayn’s direction, unconsciously or not. That loose tank top that hung off his shoulders, exposing his pale collarbone and the long column of his throat… The soft skin there flushed slightly in response to the attention, and Zayn could see Niall wrestling between maintaining his customary silence and following his instinct to obey his professor. He felt a sudden surge of affection for Niall bloom warm in his chest, and then smothered it with an authoritative look directed as much to himself as it was to Niall. It would not do to show favorites, especially in such a subjective class. Even so, it was difficult, even for Zayn, not to be endeared by the quiet young man with the colorful hair and the lilting voice. He had failed miserably so far.

“Um, no sir?” Niall said finally, “Actually, I was planning on keeping to meself, all secret-like.” He laughed nervously, and a good-natured chuckle rose from the class.

Still, Zayn couldn’t let it go, and waited, eyebrows raised, for a cogent response.

Niall shifted in his seat, scratching absently at the scar on his knee as he waited for Zayn to relent. Seconds ticked by on the old wooden clock at the front of the classroom, and still, they stared at each other. Eventually, Niall gave in, rolling his eyes. The petulant “fine!” that went along with it, crossed arms and all, was almost audible in the room. He suppressed a grin as Niall spoke.

“I was just thinking—we always talk about Sibyl Vane like she’s stupid. What if…she isn’t?” He looked down at his paper, avoiding Zayn’s eyes. It was an interesting theory, even if the word stupid over-simplified her character an unfortunate amount. In all honesty, Zayn was usually intrigued by Niall’s suggestions. For such a quiet student, Niall’s ability to come at things from out of left field and see them from new and interesting perspectives was uncanny. When Zayn finally got to see Niall’s opinion on a piece of literature in written form, it was impossible to see that same work in the same way again. Not that he would ever tell Niall that. Zayn tapped a pen against the wooden desk as he pretended to consider Niall’s theory.

“Elaborate.”

Niall squared his shoulders, warming to his subject, and looked Zayn in the eye. “Dorian Gray’s drawn to the brightness in Sibyl Vane’s character, right? The innocence he no longer possesses?”

“I’d say artlessness, not innocence,” Zayn clarified, “but, like—“

“Semantics,” Niall finished, waving off Zayn’s comment with a wave of his hand. “ What if she’s drawn to the darkness in him too? Or the…maturity?” Niall paused for a moment. He drew his bottom lip between his teeth as he searched for the right word.

It wasn’t an exact counterpart to artlessness, but it would do. Zayn inclined his head minutely. Of course, the word corresponded more to him than anything else. He took a second look at Niall as he reconsidered the statement.

“Just because she calls him Prince Charming in public, doesn’t mean she doesn’t want him to be…”Niall drifted off, his gaze dropping (deliberately?) to Zayn’s chest, where the bright red of his tattoo would be visible were it not for the black turtleneck he wore. Zayn glanced to Niall and froze, arrested by the expression on his face.

Eyes wide, mouth slack, Niall looked dreamy, but intent.

Zayn was completely covered, but could feel the heat of Niall’s gaze on him like warm sunlight on his naked body. He was imagining the tattoo on his chest, Zayn was certain of it. He let his gaze drop to the hollow of Niall's throat, where the rosy blush was climbing steadily towards his jawline.

Did the flushed skin taste different there? Sweeter?

Zayn squashed the thought, uncrossing his legs discreetly under the desk. In-class erections were not on the lesson plan. He cleared his throat.

Blinking, Niall looked around at the class. “Doesn’t—doesn't mean she doesn’t want him to be a bit of a bad boy,” he finished, then looked at Zayn meaningfully.

Now was the time to put this to the group, he knew. He should be asking the class their opinions, seeing if this theory fit with the rest of Oscar Wilde’s narrative, but he couldn’t speak.

Zayn stared right back at Niall, unable to turn away.

* * *

 

It had been several weeks ago, something like 9:30 at night. Zayn had been attempting to drown out his thoughts of Niall in the white noise of rain and pot, when he was coerced into a last minute blind date. What had started out as a welcome distraction had turned into something he couldn’t wait to get away from.

A smoke break had been the best thing he could come up with at the time.

Zayn was trying to steel himself to go back inside, get his head out of his ass, and at least attempt to be polite. Even bored, he usually managed to show his dates a good time. Tonight, however, he was finding it difficult to even pay attention to the scantily clad woman sitting across the table from him. His thoughts were distracted, as they had been for months now, by thoughts of Niall.

Zayn was on the last drag of his joint when he saw him, running towards him in the rain like a deleted scene from The Notebook. It had just begun raining in earnest a few minutes ago, when the skies had opened up to a torrent of rain after a day of inoffensive showers. Niall had probably just gotten caught in it, and was looking for shelter from the rain, but, it was more than that.

It seemed as though Niall had come running in response to Zayn’s thoughts, like they were connecting on a level that was greater than speech, like their souls were in silent communion.

Or so he thought after smoking ¾ of a joint that had been meant for two people.

“Professor Malik,” Niall said, surprised, and stopped in his tracks. In the next second, he was shivering, teeth chattering audibly.

Without thinking, Zayn rushed out into the rain and grabbed Niall’s arm. Niall looked down at Zayn’s hand on his skin and stared. “Get over here,” he muttered, “it’s fucking pouring.” Niall let himself be pulled, and they stumbled to the awning together.

Zayn had never seen Niall’s hair fully blond, but in September, it was still bleached at the tips, the brown growing in soft and fluffy everywhere else. In the rain, the water set it curling haphazardly around his ears, and clung in sparkling droplets to the tips of his eyelashes. Zayn watched Niall as he dropped all his bags on the floor, and then leaned against the wall, much as he himself had done. Then, he stared.

It took Zayn a moment to notice that what Niall was staring at was him.

Zayn had been thinking of nothing but Niall when he ran out into the rain. The white henley he wore wasn’t quite soaked, but it was wet enough to be translucent. The tattoos that he worked so hard to cover in class showed clearly through the thin fabric of his shirt, and the red lips at his chest almost glowed crimson.

Niall looked away and wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt. The unconscious movement provided Zayn with a glimpse of Niall’s bare torso, and the jeans hanging low on his hips. Blind date in the bar forgotten, Zayn licked rainwater off his lips. His gaze traveled up Niall’s body, from the treasure trail peeking out from the waistband of his jeans to the way his biceps filled out the sleeves of his t-shirt. The urge to touch him was almost painful. Zayn’s hands twitched, and Niall stepped forward in response to his unvoiced desire.

But Zayn was still his professor. And Niall was still his student. How could he lead Niall on the path to adulthood and greatness and nirvana (Zayn suddenly remembered his current lack of sobriety) if he couldn’t show self-restraint himself?

Niall blinked up at him, waiting. Something was going to happen, Zayn could feel it in the air, could practically taste it on the tip of his tongue.

He shook his head. _No_.

So, they stood in silence, bodies swaying forward, eyes locked on each other as the rain poured outside.

“Professor?” Niall ventured quietly. He looked up at Zayn, a question written on his face.

_Why not?_

Then, he stepped forward again, closing the distance between them.

This close, Zayn could see the way his lips trembled with anticipation, and the fluttering of his eyelashes as he watched the expressions on Zayn’s face. Zayn couldn’t decide if he wanted to cuddle him with warm tea and blankets or fuck him against the brick wall in view of the entire street. He forced his legs to step back, to put distance between himself and his student.

One step. Then two. It felt like light-years.

“We can’t,” he said finally, more to himself than anything else. “We can’t.” And they couldn’t.

The disappointment on Niall’s face stung like an arrow in his chest, reminding him that he had done the right thing. The right thing. What else could he do? He didn’t want to get fired, and he definitely didn’t want to Niall expelled. They weren’t even pretending to be discreet—it was the middle of the fucking street. Frustrated, he raised the joint to his lips, only to find it wet, ruined by the rain. Niall turned away. “Right,” he muttered, and leaned back against the wall.

“Niall—“ he started.

“Thanks, professor,” Niall said sincerely.

Zayn nodded, deflated. He wasn’t sober enough to bristle at the interruption. It was all for the best, really. Any of the number of things Zayn could say—that Niall’s crush was a passing fancy, how Zayn didn’t and wouldn’t ever feel the same way, that nothing would ever come of this childhood infatuation—were blatant lies, and would ring false in both their ears before he even finished speaking.

Niall stepped towards the street and reached out his hand, wiggling his fingers in the water that still dripped from the awning. The rain had almost stopped.

A shadow crossed Zayn’s face. It wasn’t raining anymore, and it wasn’t nearly late enough for him to be concerned about a student’s safety, but, even so. Zayn felt distinctly uncomfortable watching Niall prepare to leave by himself.

No that wasn’t it. He was upset that Niall was leaving him. He didn’t want to let the boy out of his sight. Zayn had become greedy with Niall—not just his presence, but his time, and his affection as well. After all, it had been Zayn who suggested Niall take the Oscar Wilde elective in the first place when Niall finished Zayn’s intro class. There had been other classes Niall could take, but why? It had been irrational, but Zayn couldn’t help himself then. He couldn’t help himself now.

Not that Niall could stay. Not that Niall should stay. Zayn had a _date_ for fuck’s sake.

He glanced at the window of the bar. He could barely remember what she looked like.

“Going home?” he heard himself asking.

Niall nodded absently, eyes on the window. “Yep. Date?”

And Zayn did not want to have this conversation right now. In truth, he didn't want to talk at all. He wanted to hold hands with Niall in the rain, to tangle their legs together under the covers, to kiss each freckle on his skin.

Zayn dragged his eyes away from Niall and glanced back at the bar. His date sat alone, speaking rapidly to a young waitress who was practically backing away in fear. _Shit_. Immediately, laughter bubbled behind him and Zayn realized he'd cursed out loud.

“That bad, huh?” he asked.

Taking a deep breath, Zayn turned around.

"There's just, like, other stuff I'd rather be doing right now. You know?"

There. That was as close as he was going to get to saying it. Zayn shook his head. He was acting like a lovesick teenager.

Turning to the side, he busied himself with Niall's bags so he wouldn't have to see the look on his face.

Niall interrupted him silently, laying his hand on top of Zayn's until he looked in his eyes.

"I know exactly what you mean," Niall said, and squeezed once before letting go and walking away. 

“Think of me, “ he called softly over his shoulder.

To his eternal mortification, Zayn had—all throughout dinner, and later, during the unusually intense one night stand that had followed.

Four weeks later, and Zayn had not been able to stop.

* * *

 

Now, he stared at Niall, whose bright blue eyes flashed with challenge, and felt his heart pound in his chest. The “bad boy” line had been a shot in the dark, meant to goad Zayn into reaction. It had worked.

A better man than he would have ignored it, but Zayn was not that man, and he was no longer pretending to be. What had Wilde written? _The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it_.

“But Dorian Gray isn’t a boy,” Zayn countered, ignoring the silent ring of alarm thrumming through his body. “He’s a man. A grown man, with a man’s body, a man’s needs.” He could hardly believe what he was saying, the bounds of propriety long since passed, but Zayn was in no position to check for any reaction but Niall’s whose smile had only widened.

“Is that supposed to be a deterrent?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. The class laughed uneasily, aware of something going on, but not quite sure what.

Zayn leaned forward in his chair, favoring Niall with one of his more dangerous smiles. "A warning," he said quietly. “Sibyl Vane is just a child who grew up in the theater. No doubt Dorian Gray conforms to her hypothetical ideal of a ‘Prince Charming’—that was, of course, Wilde’s intention—but she has no idea who he really is.”

"Oh, like Dorian knows himself any better," Niall scoffed, but Zayn could see past the mock offense.  He was enjoying this.

The few hands that remained in the air began lowering awkwardly as the class gave up participating in whatever was happening at the front of the room. Zayn realized belatedly that he had turned his calm class discussion into…this. One would be forgiven for thinking it was a two-sided debate.

"Better than an uneducated child who thinks she lives in a fairy tale?" Zayn asked, with an exaggerated furrow of his eyebrows. "I should hope so."

“Sibyl Vane is not a child,” Niall snapped hotly, “She’s smart, she’s perceptive, she’s mature. She’s the kind of person who knows what she wants and how to get it. Besides, this is Dorian Gray,” he said. Niall gestured exaggeratedly at what Zayn could only imagine to be the enormity of ~~his~~ Dorian’s ego.

Zayn looked at Niall, waiting. Niall looked right back at him, a smile edging at the corners of his lips.

“Spit it out, then,” Zayn said, arousal putting an edge to his words. He fought the urge to smirk as Niall squirmed in his seat, flipping through his notes.

Then, Niall set his jaw, confident grin back in place. “Dorian enjoys…pleasure. Meeting new people,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Zayn, “influencing new minds, men, women, music, plays, less…legal activities.”

The meeting in the rain flashed through Zayn's mind again and he narrowed his eyes warningly.

Niall looked around for the laugh from the crowd and smiled when he got it. “Dorian doesn’t really hide his desires well.”

Zayn swallowed hard. He saw more parallels now than he was comfortable with.

“So you’re saying she didn’t fall for the façade?” Zayn asked carefully. Because Sibyl did fall for it. She died for it. If that was the point Niall was leading to, he had better have a damned good reason.That was exactly the outcome he was trying to avoid. Niall, for all his bravado, was still just a kid. If anything happened to him ,especially because of Zayn...he'd never forgive himself.

Niall’s eye’s widened. “I’m not saying that exactly,” he clarified, realizing his mistake. “I’m just saying…she’s playing a part too. They’re both paying roles forced by the structure of Wilde’s novel, which is forced, in its own way, by the structure of Victorian society, and both she and Dorian are aware of their own limitations. She’s just expressing herself the only way that she knows how.”

It was only through the instinct of 5 years of teaching that Zayn managed to keep his mouth from falling open. Niall’s speech had rambled a bit, and it wasn’t terribly well organized, but it was clever. Zayn could have laughed. Every time he was about to chalk a joke, or a flirtation, or an outburst in class up to teenage hormones and terrible, terrible judgment, Niall brought it back to the text. Each time, he found a way to make Zayn rethink the way he looked at things.

Zayn sat back in his chair, impressed. The fact that it wasn’t a debate notwithstanding, Niall had won, and he knew it. His eyes sparkled as he smiled at Zayn, and his chest heaved from the excitement of having spoken well.

Just then, a tinny ringing came from behind the desk, and Zayn reached into it for his phone. He never kept his students longer than the appointed time, and all of them were familiar with the tune. A few students clapped in Niall’s direction (who bowed dramatically in his seat) before starting to put their things away.

“Well done, Horan,” Zayn said with a small smile.

Niall’s face lit up.

Then, Zayn gave his class their assignments (read the next 50 pages, write a 2 page reaction to something that stood out) and watched his students as they all filed out of the room. All except one. With a creak, the door swung shut behind the last student, leaving Zayn and Niall alone in the room.

Zayn waited, looking at Niall, whose grin had not faded the slightest bit. He was still on a high after their discussion, and wasn’t about to go anywhere. Stubborn. “That was quite the performance,” he said.

Zayn regretted the words almost as soon as they left his lips. With every word they spoke, this…thing between them got bigger, realer. In class, at least they had the façade of the text to hide behind, but here, it was just Zayn and Niall. Saying it made it real, and Zayn could hear their words echoing in his mind like they were speaking to each other on a stage. It was too late to go back now. Besides, Zayn, though he was a professor now, still had a student’s appetite for knowledge. He needed to _know_.

“Did you mean any of it?”

Niall ran a nervous hand through his lilac hair, unsure. “The part about Wilde, or the part about you?” he asked.

“Dorian.”

“Semantics,” Niall countered, a smile on his face. “And yes, I meant it. All of it.”

Instead of answering, Zayn got up from his chair and leaned against the front of his desk. He had held himself back for so long, for any number of good reasons. Now, however, he couldn’t seem to remember any of them.

In the silence, Niall’s smile faltered. “I mean, we are talking about…” he paused, embarrassed, “We are talking about you and me, right?” And his eyes flickered down, lending coyness to his otherwise confident features. The attractive pink flush was staining his cheeks again.

At the words “you and me,” Zayn felt his heart speed up. He didn’t mention the fact that he’d been asking himself that same question for the past 10 months. Zayn let his lips quirk into a semblance of a smile.

“Unless that blatant display of flirtation was intended for someone else, “ he said, smirking.

Zayn should have stopped there, but he couldn’t. His mind was an endless loop of  _you and me you and me you and me_. Giddy with the joy of finally giving voice to his feelings, Zayn kept going.

“I believe we were talking about me pinning you to the wall and making you come so hard you can’t walk.”

Pupils dilated, Niall’s mouth dropped open, and he looked at Zayn half in lust, and half in shock.

Ridiculous. Ridiculous, inappropriate and against almost every rule in the handbook. Niall might not be Sibyl Vane, but Zayn had no illusions about him. The boy was pure of heart, if not of body (he talked a lot—Zayn could name at least 2 of his former flames without difficulty) or mind. Zayn would have taken it back, but they were past that now. In any case, the look on Niall’s face was worth it. After a second of dumbfounded silence, Zayn grinned.

"Or is that not what you meant?" he asked.

"No, I—"

"'Not a child,' I believe you said. Smart, mature, able to handle a man—"

"I said—"

"Semantics, Horan," Zayn grinned, adopting his professorial voice. He advanced toward Niall, who was still sitting in his seat, bathed in sunlight from the window, and fidgeting with his pockets. Zayn's eyes dropped down, noting that Niall was not unaffected by his nearness.

They were close now, even closer than they had been at the bar. Niall looked up at Zayn and licked his lips in nervousness and anticipation. Zayn reached out a hand towards the lilac hair that had featured in 90% of his recent dreams, then thought better of it.

Zayn dropped his hand.

He took a step back.

He glanced at the door in the corner of the room. Niall followed his gaze.

It was an out, if Niall wanted it. A free invitation to leave, to laugh this off as a joke, and walk out the door, leaving both their dignity and their morals intact. It was the right thing to do. It was the smart thing to do. Still, Zayn hoped he wouldn't do it. Niall looked up at Zayn, searching his face for something. After a moment, he stood up, leaving his bag where it was, and walked past Zayn to the door to his right. Zayn closed his eyes, waiting to hear the door slam shut. An audible click echoed through the room. Niall had locked it.

"Satisfied?" Niall asked, eyes gleaming, the _please_ in his voice a clarion call now.

Zayn's eyes dropped to Niall's crotch. He was crossing his legs to hide it, but the bulge in his trousers was obvious. Zayn shook his head. "Not remotely."

He took a step forward.

"Really?" Niall asked.

"Yes."

"Here?" Niall asked again.

Zayn glanced at the window. In the corner of the room, they were partially hidden by the stacks of musical instruments, as the room doubled as a music room on the weekends. Moreover, the dining hall would be opening in a few minutes. Unless someone was looking for them, during the mad rush for food they wouldn't be seen. He kept walking, backing Niall into the wall, then brushed a thumb softly against his cheek.

"Here," he confirmed, and pulled Niall (finally) into a kiss.

The dean could have come in and he wouldn't have noticed. Wrecking balls could have crashed through the building and he wouldn't have cared. When they kissed, it was like they were the only two people on the planet. A moan escaped Niall's lips, and Zayn wrapped an arm tightly around his hips, pulling him even closer. Niall melted into his arms, giving all of himself into the kiss and whimpering as Zayn ran his hand up the back of his shirt and touching his bare skin.

"This fucking shirt," Zayn muttered underneath his breath.  

Niall laughed, breathless. " I wore it for you," he said between kisses. 

"Yeah?" Zayn braced himself on the wall behind Niall and set about exploring his torso. His hand skated across the planes of Niall's chest, smoothing down his stomach and tightening on his slim hips.

"You're always watching me--during tests or quizzes, when I'm scribbling down lyrics or taking notes in class, icing my knee in the back row or sucking pen caps in the front. Even when I’m not doing anything. You see me. No one sees me but you," Niall said. "I wanted you to see me."

It was a list that came quite readily to him, and Niall recited it as though it were a frequent topic of consideration. He could tell. He had the same list. Now, he could make a new one. Zayn paused, pressing his lips to the soft skin below Niall's ear. "Thought about this a lot, have you?" he asked, then slipped his leg between Niall’s thighs.  

"Fuck, yes," Niall breathed.

Was he was responding to the question or the pressure on his cock? Zayn wanted to hear it again and again and again. He tweaked a nipple carefully between his thumb and forefinger, grinning when Niall gasped. 

Niall looked up at him, wanting, yet not wanting, overwhelmed by the pleasure that somehow was never enough, would never be enough, but at the same time was too much. Zayn did it again, bending down to capture Niall’s next gasp in a kiss as he pressed his leg into Niall’s cock. 

Niall moaned into his mouth, and Zayn realized with a start that this was happening. They were doing this. Really. 

“Hey,” he said, pressing a kiss to Niall’s forehead.  

Niall gasped, watching as Zayn unsnapped his jeans with one hand, slipping his hand under the waistband of Niall's boxers. 

“H—hi,” Niall stuttered.

He stroked Niall's dick purposefully.

Niall's whimpers came almost incessantly now, and his legs trembled with the effort of standing up straight.  

Zayn widened his stance. "Lean on me. Come on," he whispered, and Niall sagged against him, his arms looped around Zayn's neck as he moaned quietly. Niall gasped in warm puffs through Zayn's turtleneck.

"Yes, yes, yes," Niall said, mouthing at the fabric, and Zayn could feel the shape of a smile against his skin. He sucked hard at Niall's throat, reveling in the feel of Niall's eager body beneath his. His cock pulsed hot and hard in Zayn's hand, leaking precome so Zayn’s hand went sliding over his cock.  

"You feel so good," he said, "So perfect. My perfect boy."  

Niall nodded, jerking in Zayn's hand. "Yours," he repeated in Zayn's ear. "All yours."  

He was shaking with the need to come, now. That flush Zayn was so fond of had spread all over his body, making Niall glow in the afternoon light.  

"Can you come like this?" Zayn murmured. “Just from my hand on your cock?” He licked the sweat up from Niall's neck, and kissed the shell of his ear, then the tip of his nose, then each of his closed eyelids, drinking in the way Niall seemed to open up beneath him like a flower in the sunlight.  

Zayn wanted to photograph this moment and remember it forever, hand it in his living room, pin it to his office door, hang it in the Bradford art gallery. 

“Please,” Niall gasped, arching into Zayn, “Please.”  

Zayn stroked him faster, squeezing tightly at the sensitive head of his dick, then ducked his head and took one of Niall’s nipples into his mouth through the thin fabric of his shirt.  

Niall came with a shout, spurting hot over Zayn’s hand and shaking as his body rode out the after shocks.

“Lick,” Zayn said, holding up a hand, and Niall stuck out his tongue, running it hesitantly across Zayn’s palm until it was clean.  

“Kinky,” he said, panting.  

_You have no idea._

“I did say you didn’t know me.” Zayn laughed.  

“No,” Niall said quietly, a smile of contentment brightening his features. “I know you.” 

Warmth spread through his chest. They were going to be fine.

“Yeah. Yeah, you do."


End file.
